Solved At Last!

     I’m sure it will thrill the Gentle Readers of Liberty’s Torch to read that your Chief Content Provider, by dint of fearless and untiring research, has at long last penetrated to the flaccid heart of America’s socioeconomic problems. Yes, friends, relations, and assorted creditors, I have finally figured out what’s been going on. And I’m here, on this last day of the Year of Our Lord 2024, to deliver the astonishing news.

     It’s inflation!

     No, not inflation of the currency. That’s yesterday’s news. Yes, currency inflation is responsible for the skyrocketing prices, the diminishing purchasing power of our savings, the frenzied rush to cryptocurrencies, and the loss of our once-mighty position as the world’s cornucopia. But behind those trivia lurks a deeper malaise, one that serves to explain a more fundamental aspect of our decline.

     It’s the devaluation of the cup of coffee.

     Way back when, we made our coffee in metal percolators that had to be loaded with care and precision, set atop a burning flame, and scrubbed out with a steel-wool pad afterward. Back then, a cup of coffee was a good, solid eight ounces. Sure, one might add a couple of ounces of milk, or half & half, or Bacardi^® 151 to “give it some kick,” but that eight-ounce base was inviolable. We expected it and we got it – no substitutes accepted.

     Then came the drip-o-lators. Their appeal was unsubtle. Morning was a hurried time of day. We had kids to prepare for school, showers to take and lunches to make, and jobs to get to. Getting to those jobs was especially urgent. Got to beat the traffic. Can’t stay late today! The drip-o-lator simplified the production of the all-important stimulant that made the rest possible. Shaved two or three minutes off the morning routine. Plus, we no longer burned our fingers on the handle of percolator. And so the percolator was cleaned one last time and moved to the back of the kitchen cabinet, behind the useful stuff.

     But the carafe that came with the drip-o-lator was strangely graduated. It said it contained twelve cups of coffee when full, but those “cups”… didn’t satisfy. They didn’t look right. They left too much room in the mug. We started to notice a drop-off in our alertness. We sent Junior off to serve his sentence in his pajamas. We groped in the fridge for the ketchup, and wound up putting grape jelly on our roast beef sandwich by mistake. And we were feeling a mite hazier behind the wheel as we drove to our places of wage slavery.

     The “cup of coffee” as defined by the drip-o-lator carafe had been shrunk from eight to six ounces. And that was only the beginning.

     As the drip-o-lators proliferated, the “cup of coffee” shrank further. First to 5.6 ounces. Then to 5.2, where it lingers today. And with that steady diminution of our precious ration of cardiac starter fluid, our drowsiness deepened and our productivity plummeted. We drifted off at our desks. We called our spouses by our mistresses’ names. We called the boss “honey.”

     If you’ve been wondering what brought about the explosion in drive-through coffee shops, you have it now. There was no other way to avert a catastrophic increase in morning traffic deaths.

     Is further devaluation impending? There’s no way to predict it. But research continues. The magnitude of the crisis demands it. Therefore, I have equipped myself with the appropriate instrument for further investigation – a Pyrex^® measuring cup – and have resolved to test every drip-o-lator carafe I can find in the Fortress’s basement, in order of their date of acquisition. We have quite a few of them. At least that way, we can have some sense of the trend.

     President-elect Trump: May we implore you to add the re-standardization of the eight-ounce cup of coffee to your other urgent undertakings? Clearly, the Bureau of Weights and Measures has been slacking off. I know your agenda is already full, but you must have at least one under-employed lieutenant to whom that duty could be assigned? Some member of Congress who needs something to keep him out of mischief, perhaps? I’ll lend him my measuring cup, if need be.

     But as I write these words, I find myself compelled to ask: Who calibrated the measuring cup? Was he an “eight-ounce loyalist,” worthy of our trust, or was he one of them? And my wandering eye lights upon the “twelve inch” ruler that has sat upon my desk lo, these many moons, and I wonder…

     (Happy New Year, Gentle Reader. May 2025 bring you all that is best in life.)